State of Sorrow (Sorrow #1)(11)

She should be moved by it. Her father’s weeping should move her. But she’d seen him weep too often for it to muster any emotion in her, save for resignation, and a low, simmering anger that she did her best to ignore. He was supposed to be their leader. Thanks to Lamentia, the only place he seemed willing to lead them was down a path so dark Sorrow didn’t know if Rhannon could ever recover.

Sorrow knew what had happened at the bridge – everyone knew – how Harun had inadvertently saved himself, but damned his son in the process. Sometimes she felt guilty that her life had heralded her mother’s death, but Sorrow’s guilt was nothing to Harun’s. Nothing at all.

His need to atone became a lash of contrition on the back of the kingdom. He’d worked night and day to remain grief-stricken, to punish himself, turning the entire realm into a monument for his lost family.

In the Hall of Remembrance at the Summer Palace, Mael’s possessions were on show behind glass cases: the birthday presents he never got to unwrap, his first pair of boots, the blanket he’d been swaddled in as a newborn. His miniature riding whip, a book of stories he’d never learned to read. Pride of place was a tiny coronet, as though he’d been born a prince, and not merely the son of the chancellor. It was so small that Sorrow could wear it like a bangle if she liberated it. One day she might, she thought spitefully. One day she might raze the Hall of Remembrance to the ground.

Sorrow hated her brother sometimes.

But sometimes she envied him too.

Sorrow watched her father give in to weeping, waiting until he was bent double and his body was consumed with sobs before taking the chance to slip a vial from beneath her dress. It was a sleeping potion, nothing more, but necessary to keep him from the powder that controlled him. It was supposed to be for her – she’d never been a good sleeper – but she saved it instead for these occasions, when she had to deal with Harun. She added a few drops to the water glass and held it out to her father again.

“Just a little,” she said, taking his shoulder and pulling him up. “A toast, for him.”

“He was the best of us,” the chancellor said. “It was my fault. My pride… My fault.”

“Drink,” she said again, ignoring his words. She’d heard them too many times before.

Finally, he opened his mouth and allowed her to drip the water on to his tongue.

With his stomach empty and his body weakened, the sedative acted quickly; his eyelids began to flutter and she lifted him to his feet, her arms around him as he stumbled to the bed. She lowered him down, rolling him on to his back.

He looked up at her, once again a flash of lucidity brightening his eyes. “Why don’t you cry for him?” he asked.

Then his eyes closed, his breathing softened, and he was unconscious.

Sorrow straightened and looked around the room, lined with portraits of her brother. Mael aged one, two, and finally three, all painted from his living image. Then afterwards, four, five, six, seven, all the way up to twenty. Mael as a golden child, a gilded youth. Mael as a shining young man, strong-jawed, haughty-eyed.

Unlike his sister, the painted Mael never had an awkward phase; he never had spots, and his hair was never greasy. Each year, a new one was commissioned, imagining how he would look if he still lived, and he was always glorious. The chancellor was supposed to unveil the latest one the following day, after they’d returned from the bridge, and Sorrow was dreading it.

With a start she realized that with Harun unconscious, albeit by her hand, Charon would expect her to lead the mourning feast that very evening. That the people who’d come from across Rhannon, the Jedenvat, the stewards, wardens, landlords, they’d all turn to her to lead them.

Something inside her lurched, as though she was looking down from a great height. If Harun was still incapable tomorrow, she’d have to lead the mourning then too; she’d have to stand on the bridge and face the people, enact the ceremony, and say the words. Because there was no one else. Not any more.

Despite the heat, she shivered, and looked again at the portrait of Mael from last year. He was wearing a high-collared shirt, covering the crescent-shaped birthmark on his neck, hair a shade lighter than hers falling loosely to his shoulders. Sorrow touched her own messy braid, and the painted Mael stared back at her with accusing eyes.

Sorrow had never had her portrait taken. As far as she knew, no one had ever so much as sketched her likeness.

“Why don’t I cry? Because I never knew him,” Sorrow said quietly as she left the chancellor to his slumber. “Because to me he’s always been dead. And I’m alive. I want to live. Not mourn, or wallow. Or even rule. I want a life.”





Only Rhannon Matters

Six hours later, dressed in a heavy silk mourning gown that stuck to her skin, a pair of small onyx studs in her ears, and her hair newly braided into a crown atop her head, Sorrow sat alone on the platform in the banqueting hall. Though the places beside her were set, the cutlery and plates polished to a dull sheen, the chairs were empty.

Sitting at the head of the room always made her feel vulnerable, too aware that everyone could see her, too aware of the swathe of space to her right and left, leaving her a target in the centre. Soon, all eyes would turn to her and she would have to lead the prayers for Mael, a prospect that made her skin feel too tight, stretched thin over anxious bones. She knew the words she had to say; stars, everyone in the room knew the words. But it was the first time she’d have to say them. Take that role. It was enough to send her hand reaching for her glass.